"Your son is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder," she began. "After the experience you've described," she said to Daddy, "it's quite understandable. It's not unlike what some combat veterans experience. In the profession we sometimes refer to this as emotional anesthesia. He's turning himself off, in a sense, to keep from suffering."
"How long . . ."
"I think we'll bring him out of it soon, but I must warn you, he'll need serious therapy, maybe for some time. Something like this could leave him with severe depression and anxiety. We could find he experiences chronic headaches, has difficulty with his concentration . . . Of course, we have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll see that he's well looked after." She turned to me. "Why do you look so familiar to me?"
"I work here," I said. "I'm a nurse's aide."
"Oh, yes. I've heard good things about you. Well, I’ll examine Pierre again tomorrow. Call me in the late afternoon."
"Thank you, Doctor," Daddy said.
Mommy wanted to stay with Pierre a while longer.
Some of the friends I had made working at the hospital came over to speak to me and offer condolences when they heard what had happened. Jack Weller wasn't on duty. I was happy that I didn't have to confront him at this terribly emotional moment. Mommy just sat in a chair staring at Pierre. Finally Daddy forced her to get up to go home. We had hard days waiting for us. He knew she needed some rest.
"I'll be here with him every possible moment, Mommy," I promised. She smiled, looked back at Pierre's pathetic face, still frozen in a bland expression, and then she permitted Daddy to lead her out and to the car.
The house was too quiet that night. I slept in short cycles, waking with a start and listening, hoping for the sound of my brothers doing some mischief, hoping that all that had happened had been only a nightmare. But there was nothing but the ticking of my clock and the gong of the grandfather clock downstairs. It echoed through the hallways, telling me we were that much closer to Jean's funeral. I buried my face in my pillow to smother the tears, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jean's face, mischievous, happy, full of life and promise.
At the break of day, unable to sleep, I rose, dressed, and went downstairs to discover that Daddy had risen during the night. He had his head down on his desk and was asleep from emotional exhaustion. Beside him on his right was a recent picture of the twins, and on his left was a nearly empty bottle of bourbon. I didn't have the heart to wake him. I simply slipped out quietly and closed the door. Then I went to see about some breakfast for Mommy and the start of what I knew would be the worst week of our lives.
So many people attended Jean's funeral that the crowd of mourners spilled out of the church door and down the steps onto the sidewalk. A few of my school friends were there, but I didn't see Claude. I knew Catherine had gone on a holiday with her family and wouldn't find out about Jean until she returned. Mommy, somewhat sedated, moved in a dreamlike state, her face sculptured in a tight grimace that sometimes appeared like an angelic smile but told me of the deep pain she was feeling from her toes to her head and into the very essence of her soul. By now everyone knew how Pierre's condition compounded our tragedy. He was still hooked to an I.V., still catatonic.
After the church service, the procession wound its way to the cemetery. I recalled Jean's and Pierre's questions about the vaults—what we in New Orleans call the burial ovens—built above ground because of the water table. What had once been a place of intrigue and curiosity to Jean would now serve as his home and resting place.
Daddy and Mommy clung tightly to each other. Most of the time, Daddy was holding Mommy up, her legs moving like the legs of a marionette on a string. I remained as close to her as I could, ready to embrace her myself if she started to topple. At the gravesite, the three of us embraced. I don't think any of us actually heard the priest's words. There was just the morbid rhythm of his voice reciting the prayers. He showered the holy water on Jean's casket and finally said "Amen."
I barely had raised my eyes higher than Mommy's and Daddy's faces all day, so I wasn't aware of the blue sky. To me it was a totally overcast day with only a slight breeze.
As we turned to walk back to our limousine, I saw Sophie standing under a tree. She was grinding the tears out of her eyes with her small fist, but the sight of her gave me a boost and helped me manage the journey home.
Mommy went right to bed. Daddy sat on the sofa in the sitting room greeting people and sipping from a tumbler of bourbon. As soon as I had the opportunity, I called the hospital, hoping Pierre had begun his recovery. We so desperately needed a morsel of good news, but his condition remained unchanged.
I decided I had to go to him, that a full day without any of us at his side was unacceptable, even though it was Jean's funeral day. I whispered my intentions to Daddy, who just nodded. He was numb with grief and unaware of what was happening around him.
At the hospital I met Dr. LeFevre in the hallway. She had just been in to see Pierre. "I'm going to move Pierre to the psychiatric unit," she said. "His recovery is going to take longer than I first anticipated. The emotional wound goes deep. I gather he and Jean were very close."
"Inseparable," I said, "and very protective of each other."
"Well, I know it's a difficult time for you and your parents, but try to give him as much time as you can. Just hearing your voice, feeling you beside him, will help reassure him and make his recovery that much more likely," she added. I didn't like the way her eyes shifted away from me.
"Do you think he will recover? I mean, will he be all right?"
"We'll see," she said in a noncommittal tone and walked off.
I put my chair as close to Pierre's bed as I could and sat holding his free hand. He stared ahead, blinking, his lips slightly open. I stroked his hand and spoke softly to him.
"You've got to try to get better, Pierre. Mommy and Daddy desperately need you to get better. I need you. Jean wouldn't want you to be like this. He would want you to help Mommy and Daddy. Please try, Pierre."
I sat there, waiting, watching. Except for the reflexive movement of his eyelids, he was like a statue made of human skin and bones. His ears and his eyes had brought him shocking, horrible information, and he had shut them down as a result, locking out any further details. Somewhere inside himself he was safe; he was playing with Jean; he could hear Jean's voice and see him. He didn't want to hear my voice, for my voice would shatter the illusion like thin china, and the shards would stab him in his heart forever and ever.
Sophie stopped in before going on duty, and I thanked her for coming to the funeral. She promised she would peek in on Pierre whenever she could and talk to him, too. I told her he would soon be moved to the psychiatric wing.
"That's all right. I'll get up there, too," she promised. We hugged, and she went to work. I remained as long as I could, talking to Pierre, pleading, soothing, cajoling him to return to us. Finally, exhausted myself, I went home.
All of the mourners had gone. The house was dead silent. Aubrey told me Daddy had retreated to his study. I found him sprawled on his leather sofa, mercifully asleep. I put a blanket over him and then went up to see Mommy.
At first I thought she was asleep too, but she turned her head slowly toward me and opened her eyes like someone who had risen from the grave. She reached out for me, and I hurried to her side and took her hand. We embraced, and then I sat beside her.